In memory of Sara....

 

Six years have passed since my dear friend, Sara Benin, lost a valiant and courageous battle with cancer.

I can honestly say that not one day of those six years has passed without me thinking of her…and missing her. 

I think of her smile, her hearty laugh, her wit.  I think of her love for her family.  I think of her care and concern for her friends.  I think of her devotion to her faith.  I think of funny “Sara-isms.”  I think of her sage advice.

I really don’t remember the first conversation that Sara and I had at our old law firm.  Perhaps we shared a laugh about something during a section meeting.  But what likely began as a conversation about work quickly evolved into us sharing stories about our lives – as wives, as mothers, as daughters, as women of faith.  As unlikely as a friendship between an Orthodox Jew who was the daughter of Holocaust survivors and a Christian may have seemed to others, it seemed perfectly natural to us.  We focused on what we had in common, and those ties formed the basis of a wonderful friendship.

We were both only children, both born to older parents, both raised in homes where expectations were great.  We were both deeply rooted in our faith – even if we had lived through periods during which we didn’t realize just how deeply rooted we were.  We loved our families and we loved motherhood; we were amazed by our children.  As much as we both enjoyed our careers as lawyers, we never forgot that we were wives and mothers and daughters first; everything else came a distant second. 

We soon began enjoying more relaxed conversations away from the office.  We planned play dates – at the zoo, at a park, at a carousel at a local mall – where our children could play and we could sneak in a little bit of adult conversation.  Even when we no longer practiced law together, we made it a point regularly to grab lunch at a favorite spot so that we could catch up.

Sara was a brilliant lawyer.  Her sharp mind and grasp of even the most minute details made her a highly-sought-after intellectual property lawyer, to the end.

But Sara was much more than a brilliant lawyer.  She was an amazing friend – a good listener, with a compassionate heart.  She loved life, and she gave unselfishly to others.   For months, she’d visited the bedside of a teacher who had been left comatose from an accident, spending hours nearly each day reading and talking to her. She cared patiently and tirelessly for her own mother, celebrating the joy of hearing her mother call her by a beloved nickname as Alzheimer’s robbed her of her memories. As my parents’ health deteriorated and I struggled with making the best decisions regarding their care, Sara became my sounding board and support.  Even as she endured cancer, Sara’s sunny disposition was contagious.  You couldn’t be around Sara – and her hearty laugh – and be in a bad mood for long.  She had this way of always knowing just what to say.   

And as much as I missed Sara when she and her family moved to Jerusalem, she was never far away.  Her emails gave beautiful descriptions of her new home and all that she was discovering each day.  Cancer had neither defined nor limited her.  She was living life to its fullest – taking care of her husband and children, moving her mother to Jerusalem, practicing law from her apartment, experiencing all of the sights and sounds and culture of her new home.   Even from across the world, Sara continued to be a devoted friend and confidant.  We exchanged lengthy emails, and caught up on our face time during her visits back to Memphis.     

To the end, Sara never hesitated to give unselfishly of herself to others. She hadn’t wanted any of us to know just how sick she was during her last visit to Memphis, a couple of months before her death.  Sara had decided that the visit was a time for happy memories, and it was.  We visited.  We laughed.  We talked about children becoming teenagers.  We talked about Jerusalem.  We shared our stories of caring for our parents.  We planned a lunch at our home for some of the female lawyers from our old law firm.  We laughed and talked and laughed some more.  I shared with her my hope that I would get to visit her in Jerusalem; I longed to walk alongside her on the streets of her new home, taking in the sights through her eyes.  Even though the visit for which I hoped just wasn’t to be, I’m still planning to make my way there, with the images from her emails and our conversations embedded in my mind and in my heart. 

Sara’s last email to me, just days before her death, was a message of consolation following my father’s death, just weeks before.  Her beautiful last message to me was one of comfort and reassurance; she reminded me of all that I had done to care for both my parents, and of how very much I was loved.  She wasn’t there to give me a hug, or to take me away for a girls’ day out, she said, but she asked me to spend a day doing something as if we were enjoying it together. 

Just like Sara…always knowing just what to say.

On Motherhood, and Our Young Taking Flight...

A few days ago, I had lunch with the mothers of some of our older daughter’s high school classmates.  It was a time to get together to talk about what we’d just experienced; within the past few weeks, we all have taken our daughters off to college.  For some of us, it’s the first child “out of the nest,” and for others, the nest is now empty.

The consensus from our lunch group was this:  No matter how ready our kids are for their independence, no matter how well-prepared we think we are for that day, no matter how excited we are for our teens to have a great college experience, the act of a mother leaving her child in a far-away (or not so far-away) place is gut-wrenching.

No one prepares you for this moment when you are holding your newborn in your arms.  Or when you’re reading your toddler the tenth bedtime story of the evening.  Or when you’re sitting up with your sick child all night.  Or when you’ve been at the soccer field, the pool or the volleyball court for hours on end, watching your child and her team.  Or when you’re struggling to be patient as you help your teen learn to drive.  You are there, right there with your child, keeping her safe.

In reality, no one can prepare you for this moment.  One mother shared that, as she and her husband began the drive home from the “drop off,” she told him that she felt that she’d just lost her job.  That nurturing job.  That wiping teary eyes and runny noses job.  That kissing boo-boos and doctoring skinned knees job.  That baking cookies and doing laundry job.  That listening and all-too-often having to bite your tongue job. That being right there to catch you when you fall job.

It’s a job that we inevitably have to lose, that is, if we’ve done it well.  After all, we’re here to help our children become confident, self-sufficient, capable, morally-responsible – and independent – adults.

But that doesn’t make the separation any easier.

I didn’t appreciate that fact when I left home for college – way back when.  I happily soared off for what would be an amazing adventure: I encountered inspiring professors who stirred my passion for learning, made lifelong friends, had my first experiences in community service, grew as a leader, and learned more about myself than I ever could have imagined.

It was all good – and the kind of experience that I wish for our daughter. 

But while I soared off without a care in the world, I know now that my mother was still at home being a mother – worrying about me being in a larger city, fretting about the dangers that I might encounter, wondering if I were eating healthy meals, getting enough sleep and keeping up with my coursework. 

But all the while I was fiercely asserting my independence.  I recall now that as I prepared to drive home for my first fall break, I’d expected to leave around 10:00 that morning, and told my parents that I’d be home by 5:00 p.m.  The fellow student from my hometown who was riding home with me realized that he wouldn’t be finished with a test that he was taking until nearly noon, so we got a later-than-expected start.  I could have called my parents to let them know about the delay, but no doubt busy with my new life, I didn’t.

And when I pulled into the driveway just after 7:00 p.m., my mother’s tear-stained face in the kitchen window spoke volumes about motherhood: the worry, the fear, and the undying instinct to protect our young never go away.

And so, I’m hoping that our own fiercely independent daughter – who seems to be adjusting happily and well to college life – will forgive me for worrying, for fretting, for not being able to just kick that mother-job to the curb.  I’m hoping that she’ll know that I’m still there, cheering her on and watching her soar, albeit from a safe distance.

After all, she’s got beautifully-developing new wings to try out, and she needs to be able to soar and enjoy them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lessons from The Red Front Porch Swing

Lesson Three: Live Gratefully!

My Great Aunt Ella Woodyard never had much in terms of material things.  After she graduated from a Catholic convent school in Mobile, she began working as a nanny for the children of a couple of prominent families; years later, she would work as a companion for her employers themselves as their own youth began to fade and their health began to decline.  She didn’t make much money, but the families for whom she worked had always been generous.  When she finally decided that it was time for her to slow down a bit, they paid her a “pension” (pretty much unheard of at that time) and frequently delivered gently-used hand-me-downs that kept her home nicely furnished.  By then, too, two of her grown-up former charges, one, a physician, and another, a dentist, always saw to it that she was cared for in their respective offices free of charge – and without the need for an appointment.  Aunt Ella’s family members also contributed to her existence, making certain that she always had what she needed.

While Aunt Ella loved to dress beautifully, have a welcoming home, enjoy the big comfortable arm chair from which she might read or watch TV, and offer hospitality to others, she understood the concept of enough:  A few simple-but-stylish dresses, her ever-present pumps and matching handbags (in black, navy and summer white) and her long strand of faux pearls insured that she always looked lovely.  Her small grocery budget always seemed to provide meals for herself and those with whom she needed to share.  There was always a cold Coca Cola in her refrigerator, and Oreo cookies in her cookie jar.  The red front porch swings were kept painted and in good repair, just waiting for company, and Aunt Ella welcomed her guests there as if she were welcoming them to a palace.  She didn’t need or want more than she could use.

It wasn’t as if Aunt Ella had been immune from adversity.  She had known illness, suffering from chronic kidney problems during much of her life.  She lived without many things – including air conditioning (in Mobile, Alabama!) – that others took for granted.  Years before her own death, at age 100, she had buried all eight of her sisters and brothers – her beloved sister, Jenny, my grandmother, at an early age – and many of her nieces and nephews.  Friends, neighbors, ministers from her church – they had all gone before her.  Her humble home had been severely damaged in two hurricanes, forcing her to live in a single tiny room for months while repairs were being made. 

Yet her disposition was always sunny.  She was always content.

Aunt Ella lived with a firm belief that God would provide.  And for the entirety of her 100-year life, God provided.  In abundance.  She always had enough.  If an extraordinary repair job was needed at her home, a generous repairman would miraculously slash the bill after she served up a lunchtime plate of pork chops, blackeyed peas and cornbread – with a generous dose of Scripture and prayer – on that red front porch swing.  If she’d shared the last of the food in her refrigerator with a sick neighbor, one of her church members or one of her many nieces and nephews would somehow – without having talked to her – show up, “bringing a plate” from their own kitchens.  When her purse was snatched – with her small monthly pension inside – by a teen robber as she walked to the nearby grocery store one afternoon, the outpouring of support from family, friends and neighbors was overwhelming. Her lost money was replaced ten-fold.  The physician whom she’d nannied cancelled his remaining appointments and raced from his office to check on her.  The manager at the grocery store came to her house himself that afternoon after hearing the news, with two bags of what he remembered to be her “staples” – and an offer to go back and get anything that he had forgotten.  A neighbor brought her a beautiful new handbag to replace the stolen one.  A couple of weeks later, from the red front porch swing, Aunt Ella reflected that “I know that [God] can do all things, and that no purpose of [God’s] can be thwarted.” [Job 42:2]  That was why she didn’t worry.  That was why she could live gratefully.  That was why she could share selflessly. 

And so, I received Lesson Three from The Red Front Porch Swing: Live gratefully, with a thankful heart, appreciating all that we have, knowing that God will provide, knowing that we have (more than) enough, sharing without hesitation.  It’s a big lesson, one that I’m still working at, all these many years later.  But I couldn’t have had a better teacher.  Aunt Ella set such a beautiful example. 

Thank you, Aunt Ella, for the Lessons from The Red Front Porch Swing.  Thank you for teaching me to live lovingly, joyfully, gratefully.  I hope that I have honored your memory all these years in all that I have done.  I will always love you.

Lessons from The Red Front Porch Swing

Lesson Two: Sing Joyfully!

I learned the first song I ever sang sitting on the red front porch swing at my Great Aunt Ella Woodyard’s house.  It was a hymn – the only “songs” Aunt Ella seemed to know – at least at that time.  Aunt Ella came from a long-line of dutiful Methodists who took great pride in joyful hymn singing, and her three favorites were – without question – going to be offered up during any visit.

So the first hymn that I learned, sitting on Aunt Ella’s lap on her red front porch swing, was her absolute favorite: “Let Us Break Bread Together.”  I couldn’t have been more than three years old at the time.  I remember her clapping my hands together in her own, teaching me words that I in no way understood.  I didn’t know about any bread that I could break – the bread from my peanut butter sandwiches didn’t seem breakable! – and I had no earthly idea what any of that had to do with my knees!  But even in my earliest memories of learning that hymn with her, I could sense that the words held great meaning for her.  I watched her face, her expressions as she sang; I heard the emotion in her voice.  The way that she sang it made me want to learn her song so that I could sing it with her. 

In time, we took our duets of “Let Us Break Bread Together,” “Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing,” and “Sweet Hour of Prayer” on the “road” when we would head out to “bring a plate” of lunch or dinner to someone who was sick or homebound.  Aunt Ella served up not only a meal but a short devotional – usually consisting of a Psalm (Psalm 23 was her “go to.”), a prayer, and at least one of her favorite hymns.  Sometimes we would sing together on our way to deliver the “plate;” sometimes, we would sing together on the way back.  Singing together was more than a way for us to pass the time; it was a way for us to share something special, just between the two of us – almost like a secret handshake.

But then, as I got a bit older, those hymn sing-alongs with Aunt Ella just seemed too embarrassing, too childish.  So we stopped – or rather, I stopped.  She never did.  These days, I wish I hadn’t stopped singing those hymns with her.  I miss the sound of her voice. 

But the gift of music that she gave me was a lasting one, one from which I never seemed to wander very far.  Music became my comfort, my outlet, my safe haven.  And through the years, Aunt Ella showed up for my recitals – piano, flute, and ultimately, voice – beaming with pride at her “freckle-faced niece.”  And I beamed right back at the woman who had taught me that very first hymn.

One thing for which I will take credit is exposing Aunt Ella to new musical genres. My hymn-singing Great Aunt didn’t know much about popular music, and as I approached my tween years, I concluded that it was well past time for her to learn something a little different.  I would often bring my radio (Yes, that’s what we had before iPods!) along on visits to her house, hoping to introduce her to my favorites – Stevie Wonder, James Taylor, the Eagles, Elton John.  No such luck.  One day, though, she asked about a song that she heard playing, a Charlie Rich song called, “Behind Closed Doors.”  For some reason (that still remains a mystery to me), that little tune captured her interest.  Now, I wasn’t a Charlie Rich fan (and I’m not sure that I’d even heard “Behind Closed Doors” before that day), but I made it a point to buy the 45 (…what we did before iTunes…) and learn the lyrics, just so that I could teach her the song – sitting on her front porch, on the red front porch swing, singing loudly, so that all the neighbors could hear.  Suffice it to say that when my staunch Baptist mother arrived that summer afternoon and heard Aunt Ella – nearly 90 at the time – lustily singing, “and when we get behind closed doors, and she lets her hair hang down, then she makes me glad that I’m a man…..” she nearly fainted – and I nearly died laughing.  It was a treasured moment, a forged bond in our shared love of music.

And so, Aunt Ella taught me my second lesson from The Red Front Porch Swing: Sing joyfully!  For Aunt Ella, to live was to sing – heartily, with the whole of her being, every single day, as she worshipped, as she ministered to others, as she prayed.  Whether or not she was singing aloud, Aunt Ella always had a song of joy and praise in her heart.  Music fed her soul; rich texts and music communicated those things which simply couldn’t be expressed by words alone.  And, in the later years of her life, Aunt Ella proved that she lived her life with an openness to learning new tunes and new expressions of faith, hope and joy. 

Thanks for the lesson – and the singing gene, Aunt Ella.  You made me so much of who I am today.

Lessons from the Red Front Porch Swing...

Lesson One: Love Thy Neighbors as Thyself!

When I was growing up, there was no better way to spend a day than to spend it with my Great Aunt Ella.  Aunt Ella was the youngest of my grandmother’s siblings, but she assumed such an authoritative role in the Woodyard family that she had truly become its matriarch.  She was small, but determined, loving, but firm, supportive, but never unwilling to speak her mind.

Aunt Ella had never married. Her long-time beau, Lawrence Farley, lived in Detroit, and traveled to Mobile by train to see her once or twice each year, until he grew too feeble to make the trip.  Between those visits, Aunt Ella shared her humble shot-gun home near downtown Mobile with her dog, Inky, and the relatives who frequently visited.  Her home may have been humble, but it was graced with a long, deep front porch that held two red porch swings, one on each end, and chairs between, for Aunt Ella’s many visitors to sit comfortably and enjoy a glass of lemonade, iced tea, or a cold bottle of Coca Cola.

A day at Aunt Ella’s house was spent mostly on Aunt Ella’s front porch, from which she could be privy to the goings-on in the neighborhood.  From her wooden front porch swing, painted a rich and welcoming red, Aunt Ella could check on the condition of all those who lived nearby and determine whether anyone needed her assistance (Now, we won’t talk about the fact that Aunt Ella was probably older than anyone who lived around her – but she still looked after everyone!).  From the swing, she could see if the Robinsons next door were up and about; no sign of them by about ten o’clock in the morning meant that she needed to walk over and knock on their door to see if she needed to “bring them a plate” of lunch or dinner.  From the porch swing, she could see whether Mr. Smith’s arthritis was acting up, and find out whether Mrs. Little was suffering with her back pains that day.  Oh, yes, and there was Miss Margie, the lady who lived across the way and who was, as Aunt Ella put it, "not quite right in her thinking."  One glance toward Miss Margie’s house, and Aunt Ella could determine whether she had gotten up feeling a bit more confused than usual that day; if she had, Aunt Ella would walk over, sit with Miss Margie on her front porch, hold her hand, and sing to her until she calmed down.

After Aunt Ella had checked on the welfare of those who lived nearby, it was time for her morning phone calls – to check on church members, family and others who weren’t feeling so well or who might be homebound.  After she’d touched base with everyone, she could assess who needed a “plate” – and a devotional, Aunt Ella-style – that day.  Since Aunt Ella didn’t drive, we would walk together from her house to the grocery store just down the street, pick up what she needed, and walk back.  While Aunt Ella cooked, she sang her favorite hymns (More about her hymn singing in Lesson Two from The Red Front Porch Swing…), and I played nearby, listening, absorbing.  Then, after Aunt Ella meticulously prepared that plate, we would walk together, hand in hand, to deliver it – with an ever-present, cold bottle of Coca Cola.

And so, at a very early age, I had learned the first of my lessons from Aunt Ella and The Red Front Porch Swing: Love thy neighbors as thyself.  For Aunt Ella, that meant watching for them from the porches of our lives, to know when the Robinsons and the Miss Margies of the world are in need of us, greeting them always with a wave and a smile, asking about them when we don’t see them, cooking for them when they need a meal, and always being ready with hospitality, praying for them daily, especially when they are going through tough times, caring for them tirelessly, and sharing whatever we have with them.  And, perhaps the most important part of the lesson is to use the term "neighbor" broadly – to describe anyone and everyone whom we encounter: No matter how "different" they seem – even (perhaps, especially…!) if they seem to be "not quite right in their thinking" – we should remember that they, too, are beloved children of God who need companionship and a hand to hold in their life journeys.

          I am profoundly thankful – for such a loving and faithful teacher, and for such amazing lessons from The Red Front Porch Swing.